


A Bucky walks into a bar...

by Giveusakiss4132



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bartender Steve, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Therapy, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 14:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11625558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/pseuds/Giveusakiss4132
Summary: Bucky returns from war adrift, and finds home in a horrible hipster bar.





	A Bucky walks into a bar...

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the world's greatest beta, SiriusGrey. She did this twice because my computer hates me. 
> 
> She's a rockstar. 
> 
> I haven't written in awhile, and only silly Tumblr prompts, so I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Please keep in mind that Bucky's take on PTSD is not healthy or correct, and do make sure you're being kind to yourself.

The prosthetic hurt more than losing the arm. It was the arm, not his arm, because that hurt the most. 

And sure, he knew that losing the arm probably hurt more than the dull, relentless throbbing of his prosthetic but he couldn’t remember it. He remembered bright flashes, screaming, and then lime jello at the field hospital. The daily monotony of strapping a fake arm to his shoulder just so he could awkwardly maneuver himself to hold things was starting to wear pretty thin.

One day, he didn’t strap it on. 

And sure, it was a pain in the ass to drive, but he could drive one-handed. Yeah, he had to make a few trips from the car to front door to get all his grocery bags in, but nothing hurt. Nothing throbbed. 

So he started pinning his sleeve. 

And he backed off his meds, just a bit.

And he stopped strapping himself into his prosthetic entirely, and he felt… ironically, a lot lighter. 

After all, Bucky didn’t rely on anything but himself. 

 

*****

He deployed when he was 18. Ma was gone, and Pops was somewhere with wife number something, and Becca had a brand new family that took a look at her pretty face and her shiny hair and her sheer drive to fit in and belong and adopted her right outta the system before Bucky was old enough to take custody. They were nice people, if a little all-American-New-Jersey-Suburban for his tastes. Becca went to boarding school in Connecticut and managed to convince herself that horse riding was some kinda sport. 

Before Bucky could turn 18, he had Thanksgiving Dinner at Becca’s new house and heard her call that blonde lady “mom” and ask her new daddy to pass the peas, and Bucky knew he wasn’t gonna get her. That he didn’t have to get a shit job and a shit apartment to support her and take care of her, like Ma wanted. 

As Becca said a surprising grace (yeah, cause they were Jewish even if they didn’t practice and maybe ate some kick-ass bacon-wrapped pork every now and then) he knew she wasn’t his responsibility anymore. Maybe she never was. He hadn’t really been a very involved big brother. He loved the kid, but he was seven when she was born, a nice divorce present for Ma and Pops, and they had never really connected. 

So Bucky sat at that stranger’s table, and announced that he was joining the army. Becca’s new mom got teary-eyed and told him to be safe. Kissed his cheek and gave him an extra slice of admittedly pretty great pumpkin pie, and Becca’s new Daddy clapped him on the back and thanked him for his service like he was some kinda decorated war hero with some monuments to his name or some shit. 

Becca was real quiet. 

Becca had always been real quiet. 

He kissed his sister goodbye, and told her he’d write. 

He did. Sometimes. 

****

 

The army was fuckin’ aces. 

Bucky wasn’t an angry fella, but he liked to brawl, and he had a mouth on him, and he didn’t back down on shit, even if he was wrong. And the army was all about that, as long as he made his bed and said yes Sir to the right people, he was all set. 

He liked the runs. He liked losing himself in the rhythm of pounding footsteps, of steady breathing and the surety of his body. He was young and strong and fit, and he ate the miles like nothing. He liked the order: do as he’s told, stand up, do some pushups, clean his pack, clean his guns. He liked the simplicity. Bucky could turn his brain off and follow orders. He could look out for himself and his fellow recruits. 

He loved target practice. He loved the math, the way the guns felt in his hands, the clean way the bullet sliced through whatever he was aiming at. He loved the looks his CO would give him, the whispers people would make when he pulled off a shot he shouldn’t have been able to make. 

He really loved sniper training. He liked the calculations, he liked finding the best spot to hide, he liked the way his body eased and settled and squeezed and ended. He liked the calluses his body developed and the surety he felt behind the scope. He liked cleaning and assembling his gun. He liked the way some of the officers bitched when they didn’t get him in their training squad. He liked when he overheard “the soldier” he knew they were talkin’ about him. 

****

He made Specialist halfway through his first tour. He was 19 and had stopped throwing up after he shot the targets. 

****

He made himself a little family when he got promoted to Sergeant. Three fuckin’ Jameses, but none of ‘em went by James, so that was alright. They were all good shots, but Bucky was the best. Jones could find a signal and a target in the middle of nowhere, Monty could speak enough languages to always get them a drink and enough information to stay alive, Dernier liked to blow shit up, which Bucky was a big fan of, Morita and Dugan were nuts, plain and simple, and Bucky liked their brand of crazy enough to call them all ‘brothers’. 

They were a small unit, and eventually they got a rep for going in, getting shit done, and never talking about it. Brass kept promoting them, and redacting their mission reports until they didn’t have to write them anymore. 

When Bucky was 22, the army reassigned them all into their own official team, declared them special ops, and gave them a shit ton of money, really cool code names, and a ton of psych evals. They all passed by the skin of their teeth, and missions came in messy, far enough apart to deal with, and increasingly fun.

When Bucky was 24, he and his team had been to half the countries in the world. They did Christmas at the fuckin’ Vatican and Bucky laughed himself through a bottle of somethin’ smooth and easy as hit lit his menorah (and the curtains on fire whoops) and sang dreidel dreidel with his family. He remembered to call Becca, that year, and heard all about Lucy, her new baby sister, and her new puppy, and her friends. She sounded so fucking happy Bucky thought he was gonna split his lip smiling. She sent along a picture text of her and her puppy, dressed in matching pink coats. She was rosy cheeked and beaming and Bucky was so goddamn proud of her for growin’ up like a fuckin’ lady or some shit. He told her as much, and she shushed him for swearing, but he could hear that smile. 

She was a good girl, his sister. 

When Bucky was 25 he watched his family get blown up and lost his left arm. He went home with enough money to afford a place in Brooklyn, and never work again, an official rank of Staff Sergeant, and a file that was sealed the fuck shut. 

He went home with mandatory cover their ass therapy sessions where the point wasn’t to get him better, but to keep him steady and quiet. 

He called his sister every month. He saw her twice, but she’d cried all over him, and he couldn’t cry back, so he talked to her new mommy about “trauma” and “damaging to her to let her see him like this” and spun a good amount of bullshit until new mommy agreed to keep her away “for just a little while”. 

He went to his VA meetings, cause they knocked on his door if he didn’t. 

He didn’t talk. Didn’t have much to say. 

He sent flowers to Dum Dum’s widow every Sunday until she asked him to stop. 

He watched the fireworks on New Year’s alone. 

They were real pretty.

 

****

“I’d like to see you make some connections, James,” therapist number three said. She was nice enough, but young and earnest and a little too big with the meaningful eye contact. “Tell me about your social life.” 

Bucky shrugged, when he was 27 and sitting in more bullshit therapy that he didn’t need. He wasn’t jumpy or nuts or violent like other vets. He was calm and steady and easy and smooth. 

He was nothin’ much. 

“I go to the gym weekdays. Few guys I run with. I like that Common Grounds Cafe place, I get breakfast there. I talk to them,” he defended. “Go to the dog park,” he started and Number Three perked up.

“James, did you get a service dog?”

“If I was gonna get a dog, I’d get a regular dog. I don’t need a service dog,” he said, very evenly. “I just… go there. Dogs are alright, and I get to pet them and I don’t gotta walk them or buy them food or nothin’, we just hang out.” Bucky shrugged, and felt uneven as fuck. He refused to look at the prosthetic with its generic tan color that didn’t match his skin until May at least. It throbbed quietly, and Bucky wanted to tear it off and grow a new fuckin’ arm and maybe scream at Miss Eye Contact a lil’ bit. 

He sat there instead. 

“I do a little work on the house. I run again. I come here,” he didn’t shrug this time. 

“James, do you ever go out, to parties or get togethers? How’s Becca? I’m sure she’d love to see you. Or maybe go get a coffee or a drink somewhere new? Break the routine a little?” She was making lots of ‘I’m here for you’ sympathy eyes. 

“I’m not a party guy.”

“A drink somewhere then?”

“Ma’am, are you trying to encourage a wounded veteran to start drinking?” He almost joked. 

She almost laughed, and then told him yes. 

 

****

There was this hole in the wall bar that he used to go to with his buddies when he was in high school. It never carded, even though he had the biggest fuckin’ babyface in the universe. It was far enough from home that his Ma wouldn’t see him, but not so far he couldn’t walk. If it had a name he couldn’t remember it, but his feet could find it with no trouble. 

He remembered that the floor was sticky, and it smelled like yeast and bodies and wet pool table, and he used to think he was the shit, little 16-year-old fuck that he’d been, leaning against the bar and drinking watered down beer he didn’t actually like. What he really wanted was one of those pink motherfuckers in the nice glass that women would order and giggle and make hushed jokes about the neighborhood and try to look like they belonged. They looked tasty, and fuck but beer was gross. 

He remembered the creak of the fake leather bar stools and the way the old bartender would add a little extra water to their beers and dare them to say shit. 

He couldn’t remember the names of all the guys he used to go there with. They weren’t that tight, but they were cool enough to hang around with. 

God, Bucky. He.

He kinda really wanted to go to that stupid bar.

But it was three in the afternoon, and he wasn’t the type of guy to day drink, so he went to the dog park instead, and petted some of those cute little dumbasses and maybe he let a puffball marshmallow dog thing on his lap for a little while, just to hang out. Maybe he told the puffball he was a cutie. There coulda been belly rubs. 

Dogs were alright. 

*****

 

Seven was totally an acceptable time to go to a bar and get a drink. 

His place was closer to the bar than his old home, and he found himself slipping into the stride that ate miles and miles back in his army days. 

Huh. The bar apparently had a name. Iron and Fortune. 

What kinda dumbass name was that?

Things looked… different. Real different. But this was the place, he remembered it. He knew this place. He turned towards the bar, on that stool right there he’d had his first kiss-

What the fuck?

Was that a fuckin’ milk crate?

It was. It was a fuckin’ milk crate on top of a stool pole thing.

Was he listening to 40s swing music? Was that Perry fuckin’ Como? Oh my God. 

Someone bumped into him and he turned to look and Jesus Christ someone had spent a lot of time makin’ their mustache look like that. “Sorry bro!” Curly handlebars said, and actually patted him on the back. 

Oh my God, what did they do to the bar he didn’t give a shit about until this afternoon but was now really attached to? They had ruined it. 

He marched up to the bar and sat down on the most uncomfortable seat the world had ever produced. And Bucky was a soldier.

“What the fuck?” He asked the bartender. 

“What the fuck you, what the fuck?” The guy asked back. 

“What the fuck happened to the bar?” Bucky asked, very close to outrage. His blood was singing in his ears, all pounding and whooshing and fucking hell this place was terrible he was never leaving. 

“Gentrification,” someone said behind the bartender he was talking to. The guy was built, just stacked as fuck, all blond and blue-eyed and Bucky felt something pulse, real quick.

“Please, Rogers. Please give us your rant on capitalism while you’re working. Do it, you know how it thrills me.” Other bartender said, and Bucky took in his pretty ridiculous facial hair too. Who wore a goatee and wasn’t a super villain or someone without an extensive collection of turtlenecks? “I love when my employees rant about the evils of the free market a day before payday.”

“This place was an institution in the neighborhood” Bucky said, almost frowning. Fuck, where was all this coming from?

“This place gave 12 people crabs and had three food poisoning incidents in two weeks.” Owner Bartender said, making a face. “Took a crew a solid month of remodel and cleaning before I could even come in. Ergh,” the guy said, the grabbed a bottle of something dark and walked away to the back. 

Blond bartender leaned towards Bucky, “Don’t mind Tony, he’s just… himself. What can I get you? The watermelon beer is pretty great,” there was that smile. 

“What?” Bucky asked, because what? Watermelon didn’t have any fuckin’ hops or whatever it was that made beer so awful.

Guy started laughing like Bucky was making a bunch of jokes. 

Hey. Bucky was a funny guy. 

Bucky found himself with a cold bottle in front of him and a grinning stacked dude smiling with his eyes. Bucky tried smiling back, cause his Ma did a pretty good job raising him and he had social skills and was a normal person and shit.

He took a drink and immediately spat it out. He had great aim, of course, and managed to get it all back in the bottle. 

“No,” he said, very firmly. 

This fuckin’ guy was straight up giggling like Becca. “Okay, okay. What kind of beer do you like?”

Bucky was a decorated war hero. I mean, you hadn’t heard of anything he did and he wasn’t actually given any medals, but he was. Bucky had integrity. Bucky wasn’t about to lie unless his country needed him to say he was in Italy when he was really in Romania blowing up some shit. “I don’t like beer.”

Bartender guy frowned, then nodded. He peered at Bucky, taking in the fake-ass arm but moving on real quick, but not too quick. Guy was alright. “Hmmm. You like coffee?” Bucky nodded. He had discovered caramel mochas when he got back home, and it was the only reason he dragged himself outta bed sometimes. “You okay with milk?” Bucky nodded again. 

The bartender held up a finger and turned away and started pouring and shaking and then presented Bucky with a dark tan icy drink that Bucky eyed mistrustfully. “There any watermelon in that?”

He got a laugh and a head shake, so he took a cautious sip. 

Hoo boy.

Okay. 

“Another one.” Bucky crunched an ice cube, “please.” Bucky’s manners were gettin’ real good today. 

He got another one, and a name.

Steve. 

****

“Hey Buck! White Russian?” Steve called before he sat himself down on those bullshit milk cartons. 

Bucky nodded. He’d been coming here for a month, every three days at seven sharp. 

He’d have two of those drinks because they were fucking delicious. He’d sometimes talk to Steve about whatever game was playing on the screen behind him. He’d shift on the milk cartons for awhile, and then he’d go home. 

It was alright here. 

Steve had a pretty okay smile. He liked to smile at Bucky a lot. That was fine, he guessed. Maybe Bucky practiced smiling a little bit in the mirror. He’d probably skip smiling. But it was an option, if he felt like it. 

Someone brushed against him and spilled a little of his drink. “Woah watch out bro!” Like he was the one that bumped into him and spilled his drink. This one was wearing suspenders. Jesus Christ. 

“Woah, what happened to your arm?” this motherfucker asked, looking down at the prosthetic. 

Bucky felt.

Bucky felt…

Oh God Bucky felt so fucking mad. 

All at once, like a white hot whoosh, all that calm blew away and fuck he wanted to hit something. 

He wanted to yell.

But he was a calm person, and he didn’t have any fucking PTSD, so he turned real slow, and made some fine-ass eye contact that Number Three would be real proud of, and he said “it got blown off” real even, and then that motherfucker started to do the “thank you for your service” bullshit, but Steve had hopped over the bar, and hauled the guy up by his suspenders, and he was outside before Bucky could lose it. 

Steve came back in a few minutes later, grabbed some ice, shoved it in the bowl and soaked his fist. “He had no right,” Steve steamed, and Bucky wanted to lick him or something. Huh. Look at him, feeling all these feelings. 

Bucky shrugged. “People are dicks.” He finished his drink, scowled when Steve refused his money, and walked home. 

****

People got curious. People got more curious when they drank. 

Bucky chose to hang out in a bar. 

Wasn’t like he didn’t know his arm was gone. 

Fuck, it made him mad. The useless, pinching prosthetic made him mad. The fucking missing arm made him mad. 

His friends being gone.

That made him mad. 

“I get… angry. Sometimes.” He told Number Three. 

“What about?”

“Just shit. I get angry at shit.” Bucky shrugged, uneven and aching and so mad.

 

****

“Look dog, this is just for a week. This is foster care, pal. I ain’t keeping you or nothin’.” Bucky explained to the five-month-old poodle mix. “You just gotta hang with me until adoption day. You’re a fuckin’ cutie wootie pie, so someone’s gonna take care of you on a permanent basis.” The dog gave him paw like some kinda rockstar. “Good dog. You want some salmon?” The dog gave a wiggle. “Fuck yeah you do. Green beans too? Yeah that shit’s good. No corn, that’s no good for you. That’s mine.” Bucky sat at the table instead of eating on the couch.

Only so that dog didn’t eat his dinner too. 

****

“Yeah that’s a good-ass leash, isn’t it Dog? Shiny sparkles will get you adopted so fuckin’ fast, don’t you worry. What? You want those chew things? Alright, alright. But no squeaky toys. I ain’t steppin’ on that shit in the middle of the night, Dog.”

****

“We’re gettin’ ice cream if you can be cool at the park. That means no fucking biting,” he wagged his finger at the dog, who growled playfully. “You stay away from those asshole pugs, okay? Don’t let them boss you around. You’re bigger.” 

****

Bucky handed over $450 in cash to the adoption people and turned to the dog. She panted happily at him, giving him doggy smiles. 

He smiled back. 

*****

Bucky looked at the red sore on his stump, raw and aching and he took the prosthetic and threw it in the trash. 

He wasn’t wearing that shit anymore.

****

It happened at least once a month now. He and Steve would be shootin’ the shit, Bucky’d be laughing and then some dumbass would ask about his arm. Especially since the sleeve was pinned up and it was pretty obvious there wasn't anything there anymore. 

Shit, Steve would get so mad. If the owner hadn’t been chill, horrible facial hair aside, Steve would’ve gotten fired like 10 times. But even with a chill owner, he couldn’t lose his shit like that every time someone started asking things that weren’t anyone’s business but his own. So when Drunk Dickbag Number Whatever asked him, getting all sloppy and spilling disgusting beer into Bucky’s part of the bar, Steve got all red and Bucky replied “unfortunate fisting accident” all straight-faced. 

Drunk Dickbag was all “What?” 

But Steve was laughing, and pouring him another drink, so that was alright. 

 

*****

Cookie and him had a great running route. Prospect park, then down the streets of Brooklyn until they reached Common Grounds Cafe, where Bucky would get himself a bunch of sugar and chocolate with a few shots of espresso and a bagel with egg and bacon and enough cheese to kill a man. Cookie would live her life with a bowl of water and a nut free biscotti. Sometimes Steve would come chill, cause Bucky was pretty helpful about coffee places and supporting local businesses, so he told Steve about this place. Cookie liked Steve. 

Sometimes the people he would run with showed up. Used to be that they were just running at the same time, but now they texted and shit, and Sam was former pararescue, which was some brave shit, diving outta planes into where bombs had just gone off. Clint started running by accident, after his dog fell in love with Cookie and wouldn’t leave her beautiful self alone. 

Steve started running with them a few months ago. Bucky had mentioned where he ran, and then Steve showed up in shirts that were about a million sizes too small, doing this bouncing straight backed jog next to Bucky and Cookie, and that was pretty alright. 

****

Sometimes breakfast turned into lunch, with Steve and Bucky and Cookie just hanging out and talking. Bucky didn’t talk too much at first, but that was cool. Steve had a lot to say. Maybe they walked to this chill diner and got burgers and Cookie might be able to sit with him cause she’s a good dog, and she didn’t like being tied outside so Bucky got her certified as a service dog after some classes or whatever. Cookie got a grilled chicken and Bucky saw Steve sneak her fries, that asshole. 

***** 

Sometimes Steve held Bucky’s hand at the dog park, which was fine. 

Sometimes Bucky told Steve about his family. About all the Jameses, even though he was the only James left now. About Dum Dum and Jones and the things they did. 

Sometimes Bucky screamed in his sleep, even though he sure as shit didn’t have PTSD. Cookie used those service dog skills of hers and got all comforting and lay her precious baby head down on his chest like the good-ass dog she was. 

Sometimes Steve stroked his hair in the middle of the night. 

Sometimes Bucky told him he loves him.

**Author's Note:**

> My very excellent beta, SiriusGrey, pointed out that $450 for a rescue dog is a lot of money. This is true, and also what I paid for my puppies. So I'm gonna pass along a link here, and if you're in California, especially the Bay Area, I highly encourage you to come check out these good-ass dogs. 
> 
> Most of them are rescued from the meat industry in Korea, and all of them are spayed, treated for fleas, and they've got their shots. Before they go out for adoption, they're put into foster homes, not a shelter, so that they're socialized and as adoptable as possible. 
> 
> They usually have a ton of puppies, and the dogs rescued from the meat industry are some of the kindest, most playful little things in the world. They love to be petted, and spoiled. 
> 
> So if you're thinking of adopting a dog (or cat. They're rolling in kittens right now), this place is a little pricey, but they're saving lives. It's called dps rescue, and you can find them here: http://www.dpsrescue.org 
> 
> They're always looking for foster homes and volunteers, so if you're in the Bay Area of California and can't commit to a dog, but really want to snuggle a puppy, they're so happy to have the help. 
> 
> Bucky would approve.


End file.
